Tension and the Spark
by Atramentous Love
Summary: Pulsing beats, sweaty bodies, and alcohol burning his throat in a flaming trail. Lights in her eyes, cold realism painted on her heart, and a smile that never reaches her irises. "She sings like a siren." Love isn't fate; it's pure luck. HitsuRuki AU
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Bleach or Darren Hayes' solo CD, the Tension and the Spark. See below for my Author's Notes.

_Important Note:_Anonymous reviews have been enabled.

**Tension and the Spark**  
_-Love's a game of chance-_

"You know Rukia, that guy over there is pretty cute." Matsumoto giggles devilishly in her ear and blows a kiss to the bartender.

Rukia doesn't say anything, choosing to ignore the busty blonde's teasing and flirtatious words. A couple of minutes pass by awkwardly until the petite figure brushes a stray hair from her eyes and sighs. "I'm not interested, or didn't you hear?" She flashes a stilted smile that doesn't reach her eyes and doesn't tell the truth before turning to go on the stage.

Matsumoto rolls her eyes good-naturedly and flips her hair over her shoulder, watching as a tattooed man nearby gives an approving smirk. "Honey, you're never interested." She murmurs and gets up to saunter over to her mysterious admirer. "But I'm _always_ interested."

"Hey, I couldn't help but notice you didn't have anyone sitting with you. I'm sorry if you think that my stare was a little creepy." The punk's hair is nearly black, but it glows with a faint hint of violet. His fingers idly drum the table and his whole posture is confident and relaxed at the same time.

She smiles. "I'm used to people staring by now. The name's Matsumoto, what's yours?" She slides easily into the empty seat and lifts a perfectly molded arm to adjust her gleaming necklace. She doesn't miss the way his eyes gleam in the dark atmosphere or the slight tensing of his muscles underneath the casual black dress shirt.

"Shuuhei. Hisagi Shuuhei." He shrugs and toys idly with the silver bracelets on his wrist. "So, you work here or somethin'? You seem to know this place pretty well."

Rangiku opens her glossy lips, ready to answer with a perfectly coy innuendo underneath her words, but the opening sounds of graceful piano notes stop her. She takes a moment to soak them in—beautiful as always and just as delicate as the person playing them, before she decides to reply. "Sort of. I'm a backup bartender, but I like this place a lot. See that girl playing on stage there? She's a friend of mine and she only comes to play for her one-hour shift. You hit the club at the wrong hour if you're looking for some heavy bass beats. It's the classy hour right now."

"Who said I was looking for some bass beats? I'm just looking for some company, and it seems like I've found it." He grins and leans back into the seat, eyes flickering briefly past the girl behind the piano before going back to Matsumoto. "She's good."

She whistles, impressed with his cool attitude and smooth pickup line. She hasn't seen a guy this good since close to six months ago. "You play?"

He holds up his hand in response, turning it so that she can see the imprints of guitar strings on the pads of his fingers. "Electric and acoustic. I'm in a garage band with that guy over there." He jerks his head to a guy further down along the bar—the same one Matsumoto pointed out moments before to a very not-interested Rukia. "There's two more guys, Kurosaki and Renji. Thing is, we need a singer."

She laughs at his eager expression and shakes her head. "I'm not good at singing, trust me. What's the other guy's name? The one here right now that you just pointed out."

"Toshiro. Although you better not call him that; he'll go absolutely nuts if you do that. We call 'im Hitsugaya and he's a real ice block. Why the interest?"

"Why the defensiveness? Jealous?" She teases and watches him shift uncomfortably before relenting. "That girl playing the piano—her name's Rukia and she's in desperate need of some love. She can sing like a siren too." She watches his eyebrow arch up in surprise before leaning forward and whispering in his ear. "What can I say? I'm a matchmaker at heart."

To his credit, Shuuhei keeps his cool and gives a longer glance at the stage and the figure on it before allowing a slow and satisfied smile curl his lips. "Devious, aren't you?" He finishes his drink, setting the glass down carelessly on the table.

"Oh yes. I'm a real vixen. Leaving so soon?" Matsumoto surprises herself with the question, wondering when she became so interested in him. She says it's his attitude and the lean, but obviously powerful body.

He stands up, throwing some bills to go with the empty glass and gives a half-nod, half shrug. "Not quite yet. I'm going to drag my ice-block buddy with me closer to the front so I can hear her voice better. It's a democracy in the band, though I wish I were the dictator. Wanna come, I mean, since you're her friend and all. You could tell us a bit more about her."

She runs her hand through her hair and puts a hand on his shoulder. "Sure, I don't see any reason not to."

* * *

He stirs the margarita restlessly, ignoring the dubious looks cast at him by the idiotic bartender. The fool still doesn't think he's above the age limit to be imbibing alcohol. He snorts disdainfully and takes a particularly vicious swig of the drink, reveling as the liquid burns a molten trail down his throat.

The piano music playing softly from the stage is a soothing balm to his frenzied nerves and agitated state. He's never liked clubs. Too many people, too many lives being wasted, never mind the fact that he isn't doing too much better than them in life. From the corner of his eye, he can see a subtly grinning Shuuhei walking arm-in-arm with a well-endowed blond, and sighs. This really couldn't be good for him.

The pair stop in front of him and he turns to the side, pretending that he doesn't see them there at all.

"Oy, Hitsugaya. Matsumoto here says that ther—"

Bored teal eyes stare straight past Shuuhei in defiance. "Not interested in it, her, or him."

Matsumoto smothers a laugh behind her perfectly manicured hand. He's perfect for Rukia: good-looking, stubborn, arrogant, and most definitely _not_ a pushover.

Shuuhei shoots an annoyed glare and tries again. "We need a singer, whether you like it or not. And she says that girl on the stage can sing like a siren. So you're coming with us to get a closer look at the girl—even if I have to drag you there." They lock eyes with one another before Hitsugaya gives up with a sigh of irritation, shoving some coins beside his drink.

"This had better be worth my time."

Matsumoto's voice is strangely serious when she speaks, the teasing glint to her eyes vanishing suddenly until all that's left is a piercing gaze. "Rukia is never a waste of time."

It's enough to interest the frosty twenty-one year old and he shrugs before walking on ahead to a better seat. "We'll see."

When they manage to knock a couple of drunks out of their front-row seats, Rukia's already starting on her own composition—a familiar spin on Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata with her own lyrics mixed in. It plays out smoothly, the individual notes tying together in ways that many things cannot.

Hitsugaya raises an eyebrow in vague interest, refusing to acknowledge the fact that she's impressive. But Shuuhei has no qualms about whistling lowly in surprise, far surprised by the melodic music than before. Matsumoto remains quiet, anticipating the joining of the human voice with the piano.

She isn't disappointed when the first words filter out through the haziness of the club. Rukia's voice is smoky and dark, neither light nor girly, and it suspends in the atmosphere like wisps of fog.

_"Je voudrais chanter…  
Tu comprends cette chanson?"_

None of them understand French, but that doesn't prevent them from leaning forward anyways. Her words, undecipherable, serve only to intrigue them more.

"It's beautiful," Hitsugaya murmurs reluctantly and Matsumoto gives a faint smile.

"She's always beautiful when she sings."

_"Pour mon couer, je chante,  
Pour mon couer, je pleure."_

They stay silent until the final note has been sung and the final haunting echoes of the piano have died away, and then they clap.

* * *

She closes her eyes in satisfaction and swings her legs around the bench to stand and bow. The audience is swathed in darkness, mere ghosts to her eyes after the brightness of the lights on stage. She's sure that Matsumoto is somewhere in the front, probably clapping and cheering as usual. She smiles and makes a note to thank her supportive friend later—when they head home together.

She expects to see the blond alone and is mildly surprised and irritated to find two men by her side. The fact that one of the males was the very same one pointed out to her earlier does not escape her sharp mind. The fact that Rangiku's hand is casually touching the punk's wrist does not escape her either. She places a fake smile on her face and steps forward into the small group. "Matsumoto, care to introduce us?"

The fact that she wants to demand rather than ask politely doesn't escape Matsumoto. "Oh yeah. Mr.-Spiky-Hair here is Hisagi Shuuhei. But he's actually a softie and an electric guitarist for a garage band. Mr. Grumpy is Hitsugaya and he's a friend of Shuuhei. They were impressed by your performance."

Rukia purses her lips in thought and waves off the compliment with a slight hand motion. "There's nothing to be impressed about. I'm Kuchiki Rukia. Nice to meet you guys."

"Would you be against joinin' a band?" The words are drawled out and Shuuhei flicks the ashes of his cigarette into a nearby trashcan. The flame still burns on the stick though, bright blue and red.

"Excuse me?" The words are sharp, but it's too late to take them back and she's not sorry about it anyways.

"Let me rephrase it. He means to ask if you would be interested in joining a band as a singer, specifically, if you would be interested in joining our band." Hitsugaya glances at her briefly, teal-green eyes critical and unyielding.

She doesn't flinch. "Depends on if the band is good."

The unspoken jab is appreciated and savored by the white-haired electric bassist of the group. "Somebody's witty."

She gives a genuine smile this time. "And somebody's dodging the question."

He matches her sentence with one of his own, resisting the urge to outright smirk at the fact that she can actually keep up with him. "I'm not dodging; you're just not answering." Matsumoto flashes a curious glance at Shuuhei, who gives her a subtle thumbs-up in response.

"_He likes her."_ Hisagi mouths in between listening to the pair verbally spar.

"_Never would've pegged you to be a matchmaker too." _Rangiku mouths back and flicks him playfully on the forehead.

"I'll try it out. When should I meet you guys and where?" Rukia caves in, her curiosity piqued by Hitsugaya's unrelenting torrent of smartass phrases.

"We'll come get you sometime next week. Just make sure you don't get sick." He folds his arms and turns to leave, a barely perceptible smile curving his lips.

She sees it, but doesn't remark on it. "Just make sure you don't forget."

"I won't."

* * *

**Author's Notes:** I sort of rushed this, so it may sound disconnected. I'm sorry about that! This won't be a very long story, at most, maybe eight chapters or so. Rukia's a little more guarded with herself in the story at first. So don't come complaining if she's not being all cute-cute and the like. She'll be cute later, not now. Drop a comment if you've got the time. It does wonders to inspire.

**Translations:**

_I would like to sing…  
Do you understand this song?  
For my heart, I sing.  
For my heart, I cry._


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Bleach or the entire idea of Hitsugaya and Rukia belonging together. I do own the lyrics she sings though as they are a product of my imagination and rusty poem skills. See below for my Author's Note as well as for some review responses.

_Important Note: _I have started a HitsuRuki livejournal community! Please join; we need more members! Remember, type the URL without the extra spaces. The url is: http://hitsuruki. livejournal . com

**Tension and the Spark  
**_-Tell me no lies-_

"You aren't going to tell him, are you?" Matsumoto's voice is carefully flippant with just the right hint of flirtatiousness. To an unknowing bystander, the words are innocent, perhaps referring to an expensive purchase or the appearance of an anonymous gift from an admirer. But to Rukia, the words go much deeper than that. The club is mostly unoccupied at this hour, still six o'clock and the usual partygoers don't come by until at least eight. She finds herself pausing over her answer, preferring to direct her attention to the gentle swinging of the pendulum in the corner.

"Hello? Earth to Rukia? C'mon, just answer the question." Matsumoto throws the dirty rag into a pile of dirtier dishes in the sink, pretty lips pursed into an expression of obvious annoyance. Her long blond hair has been swept up into a high ponytail for tonight, the bartender outfit resting nicely on her figure. On a normal night, Rukia would have teased Matsumoto about the obvious change in hairstyle and asked who the lucky man was. But it is not a normal night for her today and she's not in the mood to be playful anyways. Her leg twinges as she walks past her friend to gently set the glass of vodka in front of a depressed young man. She tries to ignore the way the pain seems to climb its way down and wrap around her ankle. But it's so very hard and it isn't until Matsumoto places a firm hand on the small of her back that she realizes she's managed to space out yet again.

"Why would I?" She replies a little too carelessly. "It's not as if they'll even accept me as part of the band yet. Remember, they're coming tonight and since you want to come with me…It will be about midnight before we actually get to see how I'll fit with their playing style." She smiles slightly, the corners of her lips twitching hesitantly upwards before the same stern expression takes over the canvas of her face again. "Don't get your hopes up for me, Matsumoto. God knows I don't expect to see them again after tonight." She turns away, ignoring the sharp twinge of pain the movement causes, and greets the first customers of the night.

She doesn't see the way Rangiku's gray eyes glint in sympathy and understanding at her or the way those same eyes assess her outfit guardedly. Perhaps it is for the best that way, Matsumoto thinks. Rukia is in the same outfit as always, loose denim jeans buckled tightly to her slender waist and a white tank top covering her torso. It's always conservative and the blond thinks that of all the people in the world to despise slit dresses and skirts, there is no one with a better reason than the petite raven-haired girl.

It's been two years since Rukia has last been able to wear something like that after all.

* * *

"Do I look alright?" Shuuhei's face is twisted into a strange combination of anxiety and self-confidence even as he rotates his neck awkwardly to see himself from all angles in front of the mirror. His leanly muscled form is covered with a form fitting black muscle shirt and a pair of cargo pants. A choker is fastened loosely around his neck even as the bracelets hanging from his wrist jar loudly against one another in protest against his various movements. Hitsugaya sighs deeply, shoving his hands into his jacket's pockets before bothering to dignify the question with his own response. After five times of hearing that same question, his patience is already six feet underground and buried underneath the beginnings of his infamous temper. 

"For the last fucking time, Hisagi. You look just fine. I doubt that girl…Matsumoto will care anyways. We'll just be going to grab Rukia and see how she fits in with our music." He blows his white bangs out of his eyes in irritation before walking out of the room to find better company with the rest of his bandmates.

"Still in there, huh?" Ichigo asks, hands busy lighting another Marlboro cigarette. He curses as the lighter's flame flickers before going out and tosses the unlit stick into the trashcan. "Any longer and I'll start calling him Miss Hisagi." He chuckles, previous bad mood forgotten, before lifting an eyebrow at Hitsugaya's unresponsiveness.

"Cat got your tongue?" Renji butts in, running a hand through his messy red hair. "Or is Hisagi not the only one nervous about meeting a certain somebody? You were there when he fell head over heels, so it follows that you must've gone for someone." He grins widely, leaning forward to pat the electric bassist's hair, to which he receives only a disgruntled glare. From the background, Ichigo whistles in appreciation.

"Don't be idiots." He snaps at the both of them, but they laugh his comment off and proceed to high five each other gleefully in front of him. He scowl deepens and with a look of murderous rage, proceeds to slam his foot into the back of Ichigo's knee. The orange-haired drummer goes down with a barrage of foul language, making sure to take the tattooed member of the band down with him in a flurry of insults. It isn't long until the three of them are engaged in a three-way brawl, much like the days of high school. It doesn't take more than two minutes before they have a fair amount of sore spots and soon-to-be bruises on their abdomens and arms. Ichigo, as always, emerges the most visibly unscathed, blessed with the most power in the entire group as well as the thickest skin (though Hitsugaya thinks that the statement ring truer for Kurosaki's thicker skull). Renji groans as he shifts to favor his right side as a result of one of Hitsugaya's swift onslaught of kicks.

"How did that happen?" Ichigo wonders aloud, trying in vain to smooth the wrinkles in his T-shirt out. His eyebrows are arched in disbelief at the sheer amount of damage they've managed to cause one another (not to mention the room) before shrugging the incident off easily. "And Renji, you punch like a girl. A really, really wimpy girl."

The aforementioned male finishes dusting off lint from his jeans before walking over and jamming his elbow into Kurosaki's stomach. "Ya wanna repeat that again, punk?" He growls out, flashing teeth in a near feral look. It makes Hitsugaya wonder how the hell Rukia will manage to last even two seconds in their company unscathed let alone with her sanity intact. It makes _him_ wonder how he's managed to retain his mind around such stupidity and meaningless fights. He places two fingers against each side of his head and massages furiously, feeling completely annoyed and aggravated.

"Stop baiting each other and go get Hisagi before he starts to put on nail polish for the sake of it. It's nearly eight o'clock and we haven't even left the apartment yet." He rolls his eyes, but the gesture itself is half-hearted and he knows that no matter how infuriating those two are, they'll still be friends in the end. God knows why. A glimmer of anticipation worms its way inside his head and he shakes away the unusual feeling. So what if the girl was actually witty and a good singer, he thinks to himself, eyes narrowed in a pensive stare at the wallpaper. It shouldn't mean anything and it _doesn't_ mean anything. He chalks the anxiety up to natural worry for her ability to perform under pressure and forbids any other reason to even be remotely observed.

Hitsugaya Toshiro is _not_ interested. Or so he says.

"Sorry guys, I lost track of the time and—what the hell? This is the third freaking time you've destroyed my lamp! Why can't you destroy other apartments? I happen to like the way mine looks!" Visibly annoyed, Hisagi's face is pulled down into a frown as he rights the fallen lamp and attempts to turn it on.

It remains off. Pulling away from the utility with a slight hint of sardonic amusement lacing his face, Shuuhei holds up three fingers. "Someone's paying me for the lamp _and_ for tonight's drinks. And you guys have got about three seconds to decide who the winner will be before I start the blackmailing." There's a silence that lasts barely half a second, but it's enough for Ichigo and Renji to open the door, run out, and slam it shut behind them.

Hitsugaya's scowl deepens, squelching the urge to throttle the electric guitarist and the drummer by the neck. "I'm assuming I win." He states flatly, throwing a scornful look at Hisagi's now beaming face.

"Oh yeah. You win big. Look on the bright side, shorty. That Rukia girl was definitely interested in you last time. Maybe you'll score with her tonight?" Shuuhei's expression is innocent enough, but Hitsugaya knows the man well enough to know that the words 'innocent' and 'Hisagi Shuuhei' never belong in the same sentence together, ever.

"What did you call me?" The white-haired youth's glare sharpens to the point where it fairly gleams with malicious intent.

It takes barely a second for the punk guitarist to realize his mistake, and when he does, he wastes no time in sprinting for the door. It's one of those times when Hisagi thanks God for giving him long legs to run with and a faster reaction time than normal. He's not sure how many times he's been able to avoid Hitsugaya's flaming response just on those two factors alone. As he hears the incensed bassist's footsteps following close behind him, he closes his eyes and prays that Matsumoto won't ask him why he looks so winded tonight at the club.

He doesn't think she'll let him live it down if he tells her he's afraid of "Mr. Grumpy."

* * *

"You look…out of breath," Matsumoto states with something like amusement coloring her tone once she spies Hisagi's lanky figure by the door of the club. It's a pleasing sight though, she'll admit. His brow is gleaming with sweat and the previously decent muscle shirts clings to his frame, exposing the sharp ridges of muscle in his abdomen. She reaches up to fix her hair, sweeping her bangs to one side before winking coyly at him. "But you look hot." She murmurs into his ear, close enough to hear his stuttering heartbeat and the deep breaths he takes to steady himself. "I like my men active." 

Shuuhei's mouth opens slightly, perhaps to deliver a smooth line, maybe to say something with an equal amount of innuendo in it. But he's interrupted before he can even utter a single syllable by the appearance of an orange-haired guy. "Some kind of pal you are," the newcomer jeers, playfully punching her date on the shoulder. "You haven't even introduced us to her yet and you're already ready to forget we ever existed. That's not cool at all. Is that what I get for being your best buddy in high school?"

There's a brief flash of annoyance as it crosses Hisagi's face, but the expression is gone before Matsumoto can even properly take a second glance at it. "Sorry, Ichigo." But he doesn't look the least bit apologetic, she thinks amusedly. "Her name's Matsumoto and she's a backup and part-time bartender here. She's the girl that I told you about earlier." He turns to her, giving her a warm and breathtaking smile before continuing with the mundane introductions. "This arrogant jackass is Kurosaki Ichigo, he's the drummer for the band. The red-haired and tattoo-obsessed freak next to him is Abarai Renji, the other electric guitarist."

"Where's Hitsugaya?" She asks, worried that Rukia will be let down if the bassist doesn't even bother to show up with the rest of the band.

"I'm right here." He mutters, pushing his form off of the shadowed wall. "Rukia's onstage?"

Matsumoto shakes her head, pointing a slim finger at a tiny figure going from table to table cleaning up the dirty dishes left behind. The entire group watches in stony silence as she stumbles and falters for a bit before continuing again at her brisk pace. The scene paints a vivid picture in Ichigo's mind and it brings him back to his own memories of Yuzu tripping over a rock and scratching her forehead from the fall. His perpetual scowl softens for a moment, unnoticed by everyone.

It isn't until a nearly violent and muscled man approaches her and obscures their vision that they break into a run to her side.

* * *

"Tsk." She looks up at the sound in annoyance, fingers brushing back a lock of hair that refuses to stay in place. One of her hands carefully balances a stack of teetering plates while she shifts her weight to her left, unable to bear the pain coming from the right. She thinks to herself that today really must not be her day if some random creep is getting ready to cop a feel. Her lips purse in a tight look of stress and scorn—disgust thrown in the mix as well, as she regards the strange blue-haired figure currently her path. 

"I'm sorry, but can you please move?" She asks politely, burning violet eyes challenging the stranger's blue-green ones. He sneers in response and places a large hand on her small shoulder, leaning so that she can practically smell the alcohol from his mouth. She steps away with a bigger frown on her face, placing the dishes back on the nearest table.

"I'm not in the mood for this." She warns, a little too late as his hand shoots forward again and grabs her by the hair. It takes five seconds for the leer to register in her mind and two seconds before she registers his other hand running up and down her chest. Her instincts kick in and she throws a solid kick to his groin with her right leg, the pain making his grip on her loosen. She pulls away, but not before wincing as her leg twinges in protest against the sudden motion.

"Fucking bitch. I swear I'll pay ya back for that one." He breathes harshly, face contorted in an expression of agony.

"I think not." The voice is familiar to her, and it isn't until Rukia looks up and sees a shock of white, spiky hair that she realizes who it is. She's relieved to not have to deal with the brute anymore but offended that a guy she barely even _knows_ feels the need to step in and defend her.

"What're ya gonna do ta me? Ya ain't even half my height!" The stranger throws his head back and laughs loudly and obnoxiously. "Go back to your mom before you get hurt here, kid. This doesn't involve you."

She watches on in disbelief as a small smirk creeps its way onto Histugaya's lips and barely manages to catch his next words. "On the contrary," he says, unbuttoning his jacket and throwing it to the side with confidence practically radiating off of his form. "I'm not the one about to get hurt here. You are." It's all she can do to repress her shock as the bassist lunges forward, draws an arm back, and slams a fist into the drunk man's stomach. And just as quickly, he jerks his knee upwards into a jarring crash against the stranger's chin. There's a sickening crack as something breaks before Hitsugaya steps back and turns away, a dismissive look on his already bored face.

"Don't go around touching what isn't yours. _Grimmjow_." He adds with obvious distaste.

"I could have handled it myself." She blurts out, mindlessly handing his jacket back to him.

He looks at her, fixing his teal eyes on her limping form in obvious skepticism. "I'm sure you would've handled it just fine," he drawls, sarcasm lacing his words. "Whatever. I'm not expecting you to thank me or anything, but at least kick him next time with an uninjured leg, alright?" He draws closer to her, a curious glint to his eyes as he gazes suspiciously at her right leg. She backs away much like a cornered rabbit.

"What—What the hell do you think you're doing?" She stutters, her head hitting the wall softly as she realizes that there's no other place to back up into.

He bends down and reaches for her leg, but she pulls it away, panic resonating in ever fiber of her body. "Calm down. I'm just trying to see if you injured it or anything. You might want to get it looked at in a hospital if it's been twisted or if you've pulled a muscle." He reaches out again and sighs in exasperation as she lifts it out of his reach.

"Hitsugaya, she's fine." _Oh Matsumoto_, she breathes in relief and makes a note to deliver a thousand thank you notes to her dearest friend tomorrow. He doesn't look convinced though, but Hisagi walks over and pulls him away from her, and she takes a calming breath to stop the rapid pounding of her heart in her ribcage. So close, she thinks. So close, and he would've known something that she would never want him to know about her. She raises her hand to wipe a trickle of sweat away from her forehead, leaning against the wall for support.

"Hey, are you alright?" She turns to the side and sees a guy with a violently orange hair gesture for her to lean on him instead of the wall. With characteristic frigidness and pride, she steps away from the wall and brushes past him, determination fueling her somewhat wayward steps. "Oy, where are you going?" He yells and she stops, giving him a taste of her own penetrating stare.

"I work here, in case you haven't noticed and there are people waiting to be served."

"Rukia, you really shouldn't be working so soon after…" Matsumoto trails off hesitantly, but the message is clear enough and the raven-haired girl gives a sigh of defeat. "Besides, it'll probably be better for you if you go over to their place and give the band a test run sooner rather than later. You'll need as much sleep as you can get this week." The buxom blond breaks the awkwardness suddenly with a bright smile and a shrug towards the direction of the orange-haired guy. "And that guy over there who just rudely stalked past? That's the drummer of the band and his name is Ichigo. You better hope he won't hold your actions against you when you sing for them tonight, Rukia. And the guy next to him who is staring at you with a really stupid expression on his face is Renji, the second electric guitarist."

"I'm Rukia and I guess I'll be going with you guys now, unless you've changed your minds."

"We haven't." Hisagi speaks up from his place by Matsumoto's side. "If you're ready, we can go now."

She nods, handing in her early leave slip for the boss to see later. It's the first time she's ever ditched work early and Matsumoto makes of point of informing the entire band on their walk to Shuuhei's apartment. She stays quiet for most of the time, piping in only when someone asks her for her opinion or begs her to takes sides in an argument. It isn't until the conversation drifts into the topic of families that she finally speaks of her own will.

"I've got a brother, before anybody asks. I don't have a mother or a father and I don't even remember them either. So before anybody asks if I have a funky household, the answer is no. I just live by myself with the occasional stray cat." She falls silent afterwards, looking away from Ichigo as he attempts to ask her a question. The conversation dies for a little bit, but Hitsugaya surprisingly revives it with a quirky question of his own.

"What's everyone's pet peeve?" He asks, careful to look at no one in particular despite his interest in a certain someone's answer.

"People that feel the need to pity me and people that think I look weak and need protection from the world," Rukia answers, her voice firm and unwavering like steel. Her violet irises are clear in their resolve and he finds himself drawn in against his will. He's not the only one either, her words capturing the attention of Renji and Ichigo as well. "Life's life," she murmurs as the wind brushes her hair and lifts it around her like some obscure halo. "If I can't deal with it, I can't deal with it. I'm not the type to ask someone to bear my burdens for me, to deal with my life on top of theirs as well. That'd be unreasonably selfish of me." She finishes, smiling vaguely and distantly like Da Vinci's Mona Lisa only more jaded and cynical.

"I hate people that believe in stereotypes." Hitsugaya finds himself voicing aloud, kicking a rock pebble into the road. "People that think if you're short, you're automatically dismissible. People that think if you play an instrument for a living, then you aren't successful. People that think if you're smart than you _must_ be a stuck-up prick." He shrugs his shoulders at her questioning glance and hits Ichigo on the back lightly. "Hey carrot-top, it's your turn. Answer the question."

They find out that Ichigo hates bullies, that Renji despises rich and snobby kids who get ahead without any effort, that Shuuhei can't stand for two-faced people, and that Matsumoto loathes it when people mistake her casual flirting for an easy tumble in the sack. Somewhere along the way, the six of them bond together, and it makes Rukia nervous and relieved all at once. Scared that they'll stumble upon her secrets and relieved that there are still people out there who can like a person just based on who they are, not how much money they have.

It makes her feel like there's something worth hoping for.

* * *

"You're so out of tune Renji. I'm tempted to just walk over there, yank the strings off of your Viper XSF guitar and use them as banjo strings instead." Ichigo hollers from the back of the crammed garage, drum sticks aimed as projectile weapons for the guitarist's head. "For my sake, can't you just tune the damn thing already? My eardrums feel like they're going to burst if you keep on playing with the Viper in that condition." The red head flashes a glare but grudgingly tunes the crimson and white guitar to Shuuhei's ESP F-400 preset notes. 

Off to the side, Hitsugaya's hands are busy fiddling with the dials of the amp, adjusting the frequency so that his bass line will come through just fine. His electric bass, custom-made by ESP, is strapped securely over his shoulder, the pure white design filtering through a transparent blue finish. The outline of a dragon is printed on the fingerboard, carefully done right down to the last detail. Satisfied with his adjustments, he steps back and runs his fingers lightly over the strings, mimicking the notes in the song with ease.

Rukia watches them work with something like awe in her eyes. They function as one unit even as they bicker amongst one another about who has the sexiest guitar (she secretly thinks Shuuhei wins the prize over Renji) and who can play the piece better (Ichigo vehemently denies that he's got the wrong rhythm in measure fifty-nine). Her own hands are shaking as they hold the three sheets of paper spelling out her part in treble clef notes and lyrics. She whispers the song to herself, trying amidst the ruckus in the background to get a feel for the emotions behind the words and notes. Matsumoto lounges on a beat-up couch, poking fun at the silver crosses on Hisagi's fingerboard and going so far as to ask him if it's uncomfortable to play with the decoration in his way. He denies it so furiously that is sends the blond tumbling into peals of laughter.

"You ready?" Hitsugaya asks, running the hand that's not on his electric bass through his hair in anticipation. They've never once heard a song of theirs sound good because they've never had a vocalist capture the emotion before. It's a part of the test, they've all agreed. A singer who can't understand their music without being told what the underlying theme is can't possibly expect to blend into their band. He finds himself hoping that she'll be the one to pass their little test and tells himself he only wants that for the band and not because he wants to have her company during practices.

"It's alright if you don't get all the notes the first time around. We don't expect you to be perfect." Ichigo interrupts, tapping his drum experimentally.

"If I'm any good, then I'll be able to hit the notes the first time around. If I don't, well then it means I'm not as good as everything thinks I am." She replies, taking her place by the microphone. She doesn't see the way Shuuhei shakes his head in admiration for her spirit or the subtle smile tugging at the corner of Hitsugaya's lips. She sees only the music in front of her and hears only the invisible notes as they sound in her head.

The song, much to her surprise, starts off with a heavy bass line, the notes running down her spine like the delicate touch of a lover's fingers. She exhales softly, slowly, closing her eyes as she allows Hitsugaya's talent to wash over her in waves. The slightest stirring of cymbals from Ichigo's direction serves as a gentle nudge and reminder that her part is coming soon. She steels herself for the plunge into their foreign music and opens her eyes with renewed determination, the fear and anxiety receding back into the shadows of her mind.

"_She tells you she's just fine,  
__Living in her own dream—  
__Life's just so sublime.  
__Like a Shakespeare play scene."_

She hesitates over the last line of the stanza, remembering a story of Romeo and Juliet and the love that never really was. But everyone is looking at her, sheets and sheets of music already perfectly memorized. She wonders if she's an anomaly in their little group, an outlier in a beautifully drawn graph. She wonders if they are jeering at her inside their heads or if they're just indifferent. She doesn't bother to even consider the possibility of them praising her. But she's singing, not them, and she tells herself that in the end—in the end, their opinions won't matter at all.

"_There, there, she whispers in your ear,  
__Quietly by your side in the darkness of the night.  
__There, there, she says for you to hear,  
__The world outside is good and pure and light."_

It's a mellow piece, Matsumoto can tell, the last traces of a sunny smile fading from her lips. She wonders who wrote the lyrics and for what reason, because the motley bunch of punk guys writing words like that surprises her. Their faces don't give the answer away, brows furrowed and gazes intense as they each duly carry out their part. She can tell that they love music and that in turn, music has blessed them with skill and talent. She can see it in the way Shuuhei's agile fingers dance on the fingerboard and in the practiced ease of Ichigo's hands as he handles beat after beat. They are all good, made better by being together for so long. But, she thinks, Rukia is what will make them _shine_. Her friend is unconsciously moving to the rhythm, nightingale voice rising about the instruments and just as easily blending back in. It must be instinct, Matsumoto muses to herself, instinct or fate.

"_What it is you've always wanted to say,  
__Breaking the bonds to try and speak.  
__Dreams like that don't last a day,  
__When it's reality you really seek."_

She dips flat on the last note of the second line, but rallies herself inside to hold the last note for the indicated twenty seconds. It's a struggle, she's never had to keep a note so strong for so long, but she manages it and barely remembers to make it wither away in the air as the guitar solo cuts through. She hasn't stopped shaking, she realizes, hands clammy and the paper slightly damp from where she's gripped it too tight. She's not sure why she's so nervous, but she supposes it has something to do with being in an alien setting singing not for enjoyment, but to pass a test. She's not sure what they're judging her on, but she's sure that their criteria can't be easy to pass. They're dedicated and a no-nonsense group when the last moment comes and she can understand, for music is demanding and fickle. Those who don't work hard enough don't last long and those who don't have the gift for it, languish in an unsuccessful career. She wonders if she'll fall in either of those two categories in the end. A part of her fervently prays she doesn't.

"_There, there, she lies to you  
__As you sit so idly by.  
__There, there, she comforts—to soothe,  
__Even as you quietly cry."_

* * *

She made the song come to life, Hitsugaya knows. They molded the Frankenstein, gathered the various parts and assembled them together, but Rukia was the one to give the monster a heart. He wonders morbidly if she's ready to accept the responsibility for it because surely with her voice, they will be accepted into a recording label. He wonders if she will be able to deal with the pressures of being the only female singer in an otherwise all-male band, if she will be able to handle being the poster girl of the group when push comes to shove. He promises that he will help her every step of the way, though he's not quite sure why. 

"You have a voice to die for," Hisagi breaks the awed silence with his own comment. She turns, giving a brittle smile (and the bassist can't help but wonder what caused her to be so _jaded_, so _untrusting_) before dipping her head in acknowledgment of his admiration. Ichigo quickly follows suit with his own fair share of praise with Renji practically tripping over himself to add his own rejoicing words to the overflowing bowl of optimism. She finally turns away from them to lock gazes with him and he gives a reluctant half smile, half scowl.

"You were flat for a couple notes and you didn't catch the rhythm quite right halfway through when the quarter beats changed to running eighths." He ignores the angry glares of his fellow male band mates and opts to watch her tilt her head in curiosity at his harsh words. He holds out his hand for her nonetheless, turning away so she won't see the barest hint of a blush coloring his face. "But you were good, better than anyone else I've heard so far."

When she smiles, _truly_ smiles, he thinks that she is breathtakingly beautiful.

She reaches out for his hand with one of her own, amazed at how his seems to cover hers completely. "Thanks," she says and is grateful for the fact that he doesn't exaggerate her abilities.

Long after she's gone, Hitsugaya can still remember the warmth of her hand in his.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I was definitely not expecting this chapter to be this long. I was aiming for a nice 2,000 word chapter and instead, you guys get around a 5,000 word chapter. Before any of you guys think that Grimmjow was only useful for that one bar fight scene, think again. He's going to be pretty key to the plot later on. There will be some one-sided Ichigo/Rukia and Renji/Rukia to twist up the conventional storyline later as well. Byakuya will make an appearance either next chapter of the chapter after that. I dropped a couple really heavy hints of foreshadowing about Rukia. Kudos to any readers that have already figured out what her little secret is. 

I'll be honest though, just a couple days ago, I was complaining to a friend of mine about how boring the stereotypical struggling-band-gets-famous storyline was and she suggested that instead of dropping this story (which I was considering) that I put a spin on it. I have somehow managed to figure out a way to do just that and so for everyone out there who thinks this is going to be a predictable plot, think again. I'm grateful for the sheer amount of reviews I received just for chapter one (twelve! Wow!) and hope that you continue to stick to this story and drop a comment to let me know what you think. I'll be interested in seeing what everyone thinks will be Rukia's secret. The third chapter will probably come out only after I've updated six other stories, so don't think it'll be this week or next week for that matter. Sorry!

**Blackbelt: **Thank you for recruiting me to the HitsuRuki army! Also, I would not mind at all if you added this to the HitsuRuki C2.

**Sneak Preview and Summary of Chapter Three**  
Summary: In which the band manages to snag a recording contract…for a price. For every action, there must be a consequence. 

"She looks really sick, are you sure we should be doing this?" The words are so Ichigo that it almost makes her want to shrink further into herself. She doesn't though, remaining lackluster and curled up on the wooden floor backstage. From here at least, the crowd's anxiety and anticipation is muted. From here at least, she can pretend that it's just any other performance.

"She'll be fine."

No, she wants to say. No, she's not fine…and she never will be.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: **No. I don't own Bleach. I apologize for the absurdly long wait and ask that you hear me out in my Author's Note before you guys get on my case about updating and whatnot.

_Important! _ erased my URL for Hitsugaya and Rukia in the last chapter. There's supposed to be an underscore between hitsu and ruki.

**Tension and the Spark**_  
-Those coastal lights, blinking, whirling, flashing by-_

It's during a break from practice that Hitsugaya bothers to even engage in an attempt at conversation with the silent girl. It's a question that's bothered him for a long time—and one that he secretly admits has been worrying him for just about as long. He watches as the smoke from Renji's cigarette trails lazy and obscure designs in the crisp, fresh air, eyes focusing on the bleary visage of the moon. He isn't stalling for time, just enjoying the moment as it comes. He's a man of few words, much preferring the quiet of solitude than the noisy hustling and bustling that comes with being shoved together with three other guys in a garage band. But enough is enough, and he wants his answers. Now.

"That day when Grimmjow was harassing you…" He trails off, grimacing at the memory, as if a bitter aftertaste is still lingering in his mouth. She cocks an eyebrow at him in surprise and acknowledgment, her profile half shadowed by the darkness on the balcony. He's not one for poetry and sweet, flowery words of praise. She's not one to enjoy flattery. And they both ignore the way the other seems to stand out in the waning light of the waxing moon. "You flinched after kicking him and avoided me when I tried to see if you'd harmed your leg. You were limping." His words are blunt, cut and dry, stated so matter-of-factly that Rukia's surprised from the sheer blandness of his tone.

But he isn't the only one who can play this game. She's been playing it for a little over two years. That game where he pretends he knows something and she pretends that the 'something' doesn't exist. "Exhaustion, plus he was a bit more well built than I'd anticipated." The lies roll smoothly off her tongue as she turns back to the hazy moon, the motion a clear dismissal.

Histugaya doesn't take the hint. His brow furrows in a clear sign of displeasure and he straightens from his previously relaxed position. "I don't appreciate it when people lie to me." His words cut through her effortlessly, like a spear of ice impaling her where she stands—frozen and completely immobile. She has never been accused of lying, has always despised liars herself. But she deceives him with her glib words and smooth verbal maneuverings. She deceives him and he allows her to continue deceiving him. "If you don't want to tell me, than that's fine. But don't you dare lie to me." He flicks open a lighter, bringing it closer to the Marlboro stick before deciding against it. His shoe crushes the tiny flames underneath his heel as he turns to go back to the garage, the sound of Matsumoto's laughter reaching the previously quiet balcony.

She eyes the dying embers of the fire and the dark smear of blackened powder with silent anticipation. For a moment, just a silly and fanciful moment—nothing more, never anything more, she wants him to turn around and listen to her story. But like all moments in life, this one passes as easily as the wispy trails of smoke in the wind. It's a dream, she thinks for an intensely philosophical moments. Everything about her world is a dream; one easily conjured up in the presence of denial. She knows she won't be able to keep up the charade, keep being the charlatan of the group, but she knows damn well she'll try to make it last as long as possible. "Sometimes, a white lie is better than the truth." She answers somberly, her violet eyes gazing far away, though they never leave his back. He stiffens underneath the look in her irises, intensely aware that she is no longer in the same semblance of reality as him.

She exhales a breath, and the world is righting itself again, shards and fragments falling into place like a puzzle at long last finished.

"We should go back in." She announces, almost as if to herself. He's fine with that; god knows he does that often too. A wry smile quirks up the corner of his lips, a mockery of anything benign and recalls the phrase, 'first sign of insanity, talking to yourself.' "Oh, and who wrote that song I sang for my supposed audition?" Her voice breaks through his train of thought and he scowls, more out of general annoyance than at her. It's a random question, but he fancies that he knows enough about her to realize that Kuchiki Rukia simply doesn't ask meaningless questions.

"Ichigo." He answers succinctly and she gives him that penetrating and glassy-eyed stare again. It unnerves him and he turns away for a moment to regain his sense of balance in this twisted situation. "Why?"

She shrugs, her thin shoulders rising gracefully before falling back down again. The motion is deliberate and graceful, two terms he can already associate with her. "Curious. It seems a bit too raw for someone like him to write." She doesn't elaborate on her words, but she doesn't need to either. He understands. She shoulders past him easily, mind set on returning back to the garage for some more practice. His eyes latch onto her legs, looking for the slightest tremor, the slightest upset of rhythm to provide an explanation for her unnatural fear. It is then that he sees it, barely visible, like a tiny smear of paint on a black shirt. She limps just a bit when she walks, her weight favoring her left leg.

"You won't get your answers that way," she calls back, well out of sight already. "So I suggest you just drop it."

He flinches, as if scalded by a vat of boiling water, and hurries to catch up. The issue floats to the back of his mind, all too ready to resurface at a more appropriate time. But he hasn't forgotten and Hitsugaya knows—knows better than anyone else that not all secrets can be kept. She will tell him, he is sure of that fact. "You win, for now," he murmurs and steps back into the garage to face the noise _(white noise)_ once more.

* * *

Matsumoto isn't quite as stupid as everyone always seems to think she is. Her eyes slant discreetly to the white-haired bassist before scanning over Rukia's carefully nonchalant expression. _What is it_, she thinks, a finger tapping on her chin thoughtfully, _what is it about them that tells me something's just happened?_ Hitsugaya, of course, offers no help whatsoever with his customary frown and an aura that practically radiates for any sane person to stay the hell away from him. Rukia is only marginally better, and only because five years of friendship has taught the blond to read her best friend's every single movement and gesture. Gray meets with sleek violet and Matsumoto heaves a sigh of disbelief as Rukia shakes her head before going back to staring vacantly at the microphone.

Matsumoto isn't stupid, but she's the loyalist person on Earth. And this is what ultimately makes her stop her thoughts and direct her attentions to far more ordinary threads of conversation. "So you guys have a gig tomorrow, huh?" She smiles and tugs playfully on Shuuhei's sleeve to get his attention. She doesn't need to, of course, because no matter what she does, Shuuhei's attention will always be on her. It makes her feel pleasantly surprised and mildly devious—the things she could do to him!

"Yeah. I'm still not sure what we should wear though. Obviously, since we're a band comprised of guys and one girl, we need to choose what we wear with some taste. On one hand…" Shuuhei trails off thoughtfully, gesturing at the bickering drummer and the second electric guitarist before tilting his head to Hitsugaya's position against his precious electric bassist. "We, the guys I mean, can just wear some torn jeans and ripped shirts. Throw in a spiked collar and some gothic or punk jewelry and we'll be set to go. Not to mention, Hitsugaya's got a wicked tattoo on his left shoulder blade that'll drive the girls nuts. But Rukia's a different matter."

Matsumoto nods sagaciously and tilts her head suddenly, gray eyes darkening in displeasure. She doesn't dare to think of what Shuuhei will say next, doesn't want to think about it. But none of the guys know and if Rukia remains as mute on the subject as she has always been, than Matsumoto has a bad feeling that something ugly will rear its head in the near future. But she keeps her mouth shut and hopes for the best even as she knows that the story will not resolve itself happily.

"She can't wear something trashy. I suppose if she wears a pair of skinny jeans and a white tanktop, it'll work. Or she could wear a short skirt with some kind of comfortable layered shirt on top. Something that'll interest the guys in the crowd without killing her reputation." Shuuhei finishes, surprise taking over his expression as he spares a glance at his love interest.

Matsumoto's perfectly glossed lips part, ready to offer a demure negative to both options, ready to lie to one of the only guys she's ever truly had a spark of interest in. But Rukia's voice breaks into their conversation like a small thunderclap. "I'll be wearing what I want to wear and you'll just have to trust me on that." There's a rush of red flooding the petite woman's cheeks, flushing her skin a rosy shade. Her eyes are bright, overly bright, as if possessed in the throes of an all-consuming fever. There's a shifting of cloth in the corner of the garage as a pair of teal eyes spark with interest, slim fingers dropping from bass strings to brace against the cold wall.

"Chill, I was just suggesting some stuff you could wear. I mean, it is going to be our first gig and we don't want to look bad on stage. Most rocker girls go with a distressed skirt and some combat boots, but it's really your decision in the end. What's the big deal, anyways?" The electric guitarist raises a thin eyebrow at her and shifts so that his arms are uncrossed and hanging loosely by his sides—a gesture of surrender. "Just wear something that will match the rest of us and doesn't look too dull. Ask Matsumoto to help you, I'm sure she'll give you a good outfit or two if you're not going to listen to my advice."

"Oy, Rukia. Just wear a skirt. There's nothing to be afraid of," Renji shouts from the back, a grin stretching across his face. "You'll look great in it!"

Rukia's stare is blank and lifeless as she turns to Renji, an answer slipping venomously through her lips. "I will not wear anything that I do not wish to. Don't push your opinions on me. There are plenty of other women out there who will be more than happy to wear a skirt for you, but I am not one of them. Don't make that mistake of assuming about me again." The temperature seems to plummet drastically in the garage, a mixture of surprise, pain, and interest stirring in the atmosphere. Only Matsumoto sees Rukia's words for what they really are, a last-ditch defense against further questioning. She sees them for what they really are, a double-edged sword that cuts Rukia as she says them just as much as it cuts Renji when he listens to them. The gray-eyed woman purses her lips in annoyance at her own inability to help resolve the situation. Sooner or later, she's sure, Rukia's problem will come out. Matsumoto only hopes that the guys will be forgiving and kind when that time comes.

With an awkward laughter, Renji breaks the tension. "Uh, hey. Alright. Sorry, I didn't mean anything by it. Let's start rehearsing guys. I guess we can trust Rukia to get her own stuff." But there's a flash of pain in his eyes that's echoed in his uncertain movements around his guitar.

"It wouldn't kill you to be a little nicer," Hitsugaya throws in casually, glittering eyes staring straight into amethyst orbs. "They were only trying to help." The electric bassist isn't one of those nice guys found three houses down from you in a cookie cutter neighborhood. He isn't kind and he isn't particularly understanding. He sets his own standards and expects others to keep up with them. And Kuchiki Rukia is keeping up. How impressive. He says nothing more after that, but the predatory look in his eyes (like one who has found a trace of hidden knowledge and intends to fully discover the rest of it) warns her that their game is far from over and far from being finished.

"I don't need help," she replies and takes her position in front of the microphone, legs planted firmly apart and her head held high. There is no trace of the semi-passive singer that they'd auditioned merely weeks ago. Her confidence fills every crevice and sends adrenaline pumping in their veins. Immediately, there's a flurry of motion as hands grab guitar picks and drumsticks. Within seconds, they are ready to head straight into the most unpredictable practice they've ever had with a female who won't take shit from anyone.

"From the top." Shuuhei declares and watches as Rukia's hands clench around the microphone in anticipation.

"Let's go," she whispers.

And out of anger, comes passion of the greatest kind.

* * *

"Hitsugaya seems like he knows," Matsumoto presses gently, throwing a cashmere sweater at her best friend's head. Rukia catches the article of clothing with ease and grace born from years of dancing. Her violet eyes glow in anger and frustration, a thousand emotions seeping through her irises like water through a shattered dam. "You can't keep on putting them off like that. They're good guys and they deserve the truth. You should tell them before a company decides to give your band a contract and exposes the truth in a far more ugly manner. Here, never mind about the sweater. You look too prim and proper." Manicured hands hold up a pair of baggy black cargo pants, slashed in places artfully with red crosses, and toss them over to the singer.

"Hitsugaya doesn't know. He can guess. But he doesn't know. He just thinks there's something weird about my leg." She gives a half-sigh, half-laugh and slips on the comfortable pants. "I wish it was something that simple. It's taken away two years of my life, Matsumoto. Two years. I can't dance any more and I can't even wear clothing that I'm supposed to wear these days. It hurts to walk and it always feels like I'm about to lose my balance and fall over every time I so much as take a step forward." Deft and agile fingers fasten the belt securely before resting at her side. "I like it. I forgot how soft these were and at least I don't look completely male."

"You're too pretty to ever pass off as a sweaty, hulking guy." Matsumoto replies calmly, eyes dissecting the girl's closet in disappointment. "Really, you hardly have anything that is the slightest bit edgy or unique in here. I'd lend you this cute top of mine, but I'm not quite as petite as you. Hmmm…" She murmurs, trailing off in thought before leaping forward and snatching a crimson, strapless top. "This'll have to do. It's creased, which makes it look somewhat distressed. Just take a couple bracelets and slip on your onyx earrings and you'll be good to go. You're going for a fierce and commanding look. Just think about the bastard who screwed you over during the surgery and pour all your anger out on stage. They'll love you." The blond turns and winks, unable to resist slipping in one last teasing comment. "After all, if Hitsugaya's interested, there won't be a single person who'll be able to resist your charms."

Rukia rolls her eyes, smoothing down her outfit and slipping on a pair of dainty, black ballet flats. "He's interested in my leg. Not me. And I am most certainly not interested in his blunt attitude. But speak for yourself. You can't take your eyes off of Shuuhei these days."

"Uh huh," Matsumoto replies, twisting and twirling her car keys. "Come on. Show starts at ten and it's already nine fifteen."

It's a quiet ride; different from the other times they get into a vehicle together—always with Rangiku behind the wheel. Rukia bites down the flare of disappointment, envy, and bitter hatred that engulfs her at the knowledge that she will never be able to drive again. _Your reflexes will be slower after the surgery, so you can't drive_, the doctors had told her with apologetic looks on their faces as Byakuya took her hand in silent reassurance. _It'll feel uncomfortable for a while, but we think you'll feel normal within a couple years._ Bullshit. All that they'd said back then had been meaningless bullshit to try and make her feel better. It hadn't back then and it still didn't now. "I'm going to dance again," she announces abruptly, watching the street lights pass them by in the darkness of night. It's an absurd idea, she knows. But she wants a part of her life back. She needs to get a part of her old life back.

Matsumoto doesn't take her eyes off the road as she replies. "It's going to be difficult. Before the surgery happened, you left the dancing crew in the best condition possible. They've disbanded now and no one knows what's happened to you. You were lucky Byakuya took you in when he did. If you even try to go back to them, they might turn you down." She sighs softly, pulling smoothly into an empty parking space by the A.I. nightclub. Already, the music's hard and heavy bass beats are penetrating the outside space. "You haven't danced in two years and you might not be able to with your legs like that. I don't want them to see you struggling when you were absolutely stunning before. I don't want to see you get hurt if they laugh at you. There were a lot of people who envied and hated you, Rukia."

Silence. And then softly, ever so softly, a quiet and weak whisper. "I know."

Matsumoto's eyes soften in sympathy and she reaches over to engulf her best friend of ten years in a tender embrace. "There's always singing for you. And I know you love to sing. You wouldn't be doing this otherwise. Now come on, wipe that look off your face and show everyone that you're ready to be back in the spotlight again. We wouldn't want dear Hitsugaya getting worried over you, now would we?"

"Yeah right. You mean you want to see your lover boy as soon as possible. Alright. Let's go. We're backstage."

They pass security easily, even though Matsumoto isn't technically supposed to be backstage at all. Rukia's secretly betting that the bouncer is still seeing stars after the trick that Matsumoto just pulled. The guys are already assembled around the couch, adjusting a stray thread here or dusting off a random food crumb there. The stage is already set up, she knows, and so there is nothing better to do than wait. They all clean up nicely, she admits to herself with no small amount of surprise. Ichigo's wearing a black muscle shirt and a pair of denim jeans, with a spiked collar fastened around his neck. She can't resist snickering a little bit as he reaches up to fiddle with the collar for the fifteenth time in a single minute. "Uncomfortable, strawberry head?" She teases and watches as four pairs of male eyes turn to stare at her.

She frowns at the attention and crosses her arms. "I know. It's not a skirt and it isn't even close to tight fitting. But you know what? Screw that. This is comfortable and Matsumoto says it's fine for our first gig. So if you guys are going to keep on staring like some idiots, then I can just leave and you can find yourself a new singer in the next seven minutes."

"It's not that." Hitsugaya answers suavely, teal eyes glittering from beneath his gelled bangs. Dressed in a white jacket with a transparent blue shirt inside and a pair of bleached jeans, Rukia realizes just how much the bassist's eyes stand out. Unfortunately, it also has the unwanted effect of making him just that much more imposing and commanding. Her frown deepens at that realization.

"Oh? Then what is it?"

"We were just surprised that you could find an outfit that was both girly and hardcore without resorting to skirts or fishnet stockings. It's nice." He says simply, shrugging his powerful shoulders before turning away to gaze at some other object in the room. He doesn't tell her that the red of her outfit clashes with her dark purple eyes, making the flickering violet glow deep crimson in the lighting, or that she looks fantastic. He's not the type to say stuff like that anyways.

But apparently, Ichigo is.

"For a shrimp, you sure can dress."

"Thanks," she replies sardonically and cuffs him on the head for good measure. Her stride is confident, if not slightly off-center, as she makes her way over to the couch. "Any important people in the crowd tonight that we should know about?" She says the words with flippancy, as if it doesn't matter to her who comes and who doesn't. But she's nervous inside. Nervous and anxious about a million different things, the biggest of which centers around her leg and the suspicious look Hitsugaya keeps on giving it.

"There's going to be five or six recording labels and I heard the CEO of a producing company, Kuchiki, is going to be dropping by." Shuuhei replies from his position by Matsumoto's side, one arm draped casually around her shoulder.

But the words are like a bucket of ice-cold water on her fire and she reels backwards, struggling to control her breathing. She doesn't want him here tonight, doesn't want him to see her on the stage selling herself to the masses of gyrating bodies on the dance floor. She knows he'll be ashamed and disappointed. He let her choose her own path after the surgery and she doesn't want to let him know that this is what she's chosen for herself—a lowlife existence. Her steps slow and she sinks to the ground.

"She looks really sick, are you sure we should be doing this?" The words are so Ichigo that it almost makes her want to shrink further into herself. She doesn't though, remaining lackluster and curled up on the wooden floor backstage. From here at least, the crowd's anxiety and anticipation is muted. From here at least, she can pretend that it's just any other performance and that her night won't end in disappointment from the one person she can't afford to have it come from.

"She'll be fine." Hitsugaya breaks in gruffly, eyes struggling to read her every thought and every motion.

No, she wants to say. No, she's not fine…and she never will be.

* * *

The performance goes well, but she passes her every waking hour waiting for the phone call from her brother. The phone call that will throw her back to days of feeling worthless and useless—a disappointment, a shameful mark on society. Even Matsumoto's friendly teasing and kind presence can't erase her anxiety. She feels hunted, trapped. Her pains are growing worse in her leg and it takes everything she has just to show up to work and pretend everything's just fucking fine.

But it's a different sort of phone call that ends up changing her.

"Hey Rukia, this is Shuuhei. We've got an offer from MG Studios. They want us to meet for an examination next Monday, can you make it?"

An examination. She swallows and feels her heart sinking into her stomach. An examination, done by every single company before hiring anyone. It's a simple physical check to see if the talent is marketable and appealing or not. It's the one thing that she knows will drown the band's rising hopes and dreams. Not because of them, oh no, because they are attractive—every single one of them. But because of her. Because there's no way she'll be able to pass the test, not with her condition. She should tell them to get a different singer now, she thinks, as Shuuhei calls her name from the other end of the line. She can't afford to ruin them.

But something, some tiny fluttering of hope inside her forces a set of different words from her mouth.

"Yeah. I'll be there. Three in the afternoon, right? I wouldn't miss it for the world."

She hangs up and buries her head in her hands, the phone dangling from the cord.

The pain takes her under and away.

* * *

**Author's Notes: **I'm sorry for the ridiculously long wait. But I ran up against a huge writer's block and couldn't break out of it until I finished typing the huge 11,000+ word chapter for Punishment. Shameless advertising here, but go check it out if you have the time and don't mind Ichigo/Rukia or Grimmjow/Rukia. It's not very romance-based, but I guarantee you that if you like my style of writing and plot, you'll love Punishment. I basically reset Bleach in a WWIII scenario. Anyways, I digress. Next chapter, you guys will finally find out what's happened to Rukia and what's wrong with her leg. So far, no one's guessed it right although one of you came ridiculously close. Uncomfortably close, as a matter of fact. Haha.

I hope you enjoyed this chapter (even though it's about two months too late). You may wonder about the band name, well…it'll be revealed next chapter as well. Rukia's past will make a scene too. So basically, hang around if you want to have an answer to your burning questions. I'm sure you guys will enjoy the next chapter of Tension and the Spark. Expect the next chapter to clock in at around 6,000 words (this one was 4,500 + words). **I really feel extraordinarily touched at the amount of reviews I've received.** There are no words I can say to express my gratitude to everyone. So I guess I'll just have to make the next chapter absolutely stunning. **Please continue supporting me with your kind comments!** As always, have a summary and sneak preview of what's to come.

* * *

**Sneak Preview and Summary of Chapter Four**

* * *

Summary: The entertainment industry is brutal. As Rukia's secret is forced out from her, the band's future grows dimmer and dimmer. Talent means nothing in the face of disfiguration.

"Why didn't you tell us?" Ichigo demands, eyes flashing amber even as Hitsugaya refuses to meet her eyes. "We had a right to know! But we don't even find out from you, we find out from some MG Studios lackey! I thought we were worth more than that, Rukia. I really did."

She bites her lips and looks away from him, her eyes going to her splayed out hands and then to the cursed leg. "I'm sorry. I really am. But I…"

"You don't need to tell us." Hitsugaya says calmly, waking up to her and gently laying a hand on her shoulder. She flinches from surprise and guilt and he quickly removes his hold on her. "We're all angry and hurt by what you did, but that doesn't mean you should spill everything out to us. Wait until you're ready. I don't want to take advantage of your confusion."

She watches as he walks out the door and wonders what more she has to lose.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: **I was away for most of the summer attending Governor's School and going to China as a spectator of the 2008 Olympics. And then school ate me. It's actually still eating me. I apologize for the long wait (and I don't own Bleach, by the way).

**Tension and the Spark**_  
-These deceptions shape you, mold you, and consume you-_

It's always hardest in the mornings.

Always hardest to get up in the mornings, with her eyes shut tight and the blindness covering her like a warm and worn-out blanket. She breathes deeply, wanting to just stay in place—to just wallow in her self-pity for a while longer, but she can't. And she hates that she can't. Today's the day when everything happens, she knows. Today's the day when her secret is going to be brutally ripped out from the confines of her chest and shown to the world. Today's the day when she'll finally have to come to terms with what's happened to her. She sits up gradually, eyes still closed (as if that could somehow change the future, somehow protect her from reality) and clutches the bed frame with rapidly whitening fingers.

She needs to get up. Live just another day past the depression looming in the depths of her soul. Get past the memories of pain and disease and the sickening atmosphere of destitution and poverty. Get up, walk, and face the future.

Her entire body is shaking uncontrollably. She can't do this to the band and she can't do this to herself. She's barely hanging on as it is. But it's too late to change anything now and she gives a mirthless chuckle as her eyes finally open, the pretty shade of violet now a deeply troubled and bitter indigo.

It's always been too late for her.

_A pair of sad hazel eyes regarding her from beneath a surgical cap. Blood-soaked scalpels and instruments that gleam brightly from underneath their coat of crimson. She swallows thickly and can't feel anything. Oh no, nothing. Too late, she repeats to herself, wanting to end it right there and then. Too late. We were too late. We couldn't save you. And the doctor is apologizing, bowing in a ridiculously bright green surgical gown, murmuring the same two words over and over again. Apologize, she thinks dully. Apologize while I crawl out—defeated and broken. Yeah, right. She wants to snarl._

_You aren't sorry at all. _

She shakes her head furiously, trying to get rid of the unwanted memory. It was the cherry on her rotting cake. It was the end of the long road, and the beginning? She scowls and narrows her eyes. She doesn't want to remember the beginning. Her movements are slow and pained as she stumbles over to the closet, ignoring the sharp protest from her good leg and the numbness from the bad one. She doesn't bother to care about her outfit, wonders if maybe the group will forgive her for this, wonders if she can ever show her face to them after today. She pulls on a black hoodie, simple and unadorned, and slips into a pair of equally dark sweatpants—the type she used to wear when she danced out on the streets at night. Her teeth hurt from clenching them so tightly for so long. She feels tired and exhausted—a soul weary feeling.

She walks into the bathroom, sleepily rubbing at one eye. There's the turning of the faucet and cold water splashing onto her face. The toothpaste tastes like sand in her mouth. She spits it out, gurgles, and rinses again mechanically. Hesitantly, she lifts her head to regard the face staring back at her. This is the true Kuchiki Rukia, the one without the masks and the barbed insults that coat her like thorns on a rose. She smiles a bit, broken on the edges, and sees her reflection do the same only with the depression darkening her expression and the exhaustion seeping away at her already thin frame. It brings back memories—too many memories that she'd rather forget.

"_Look, bitch. I don't care if you're the next Goddess of Dancing or whatever shit like that. But you're taking away my rep and I'm not going to just stand here like some dumbass waiting to be shot and killed. Get your crew out of here. You don't belong." Cold, black eyes narrow in disdain and the girl gives one last angry look before turning, one hand discretely clutching a switchblade. _

_Her fists are clenched at her side in shame and rage. She shouldn't give into the voice telling her to take action; she should just do what the hip-hop dancer said. She should tell her gang to move onto the next town and wait for a competition or an event there. But she's sick of being stepped on repeatedly and she's sick of the disdainful and condescending looks, the snide and arrogant voices always talking trash about her. And before she knows what she's doing, she's launching herself forward in a desperate sprint; fists clenched and ready to fight. Fuck it, she thinks. _

_The next day, a bandaged but confident Rukia takes over the alleyways. _

_She doesn't even notice the mild throbbing or the slight swelling of her right leg. _

She jerks awake suddenly, her head hitting the corner of a shelf in the bathroom. "Great," she utters disparagingly at no one and heads out the door. It's a chilly morning and her steps are brisk as she walks towards Shuuhei's apartment. Matsumoto's still asleep in their shared townhouse, and she doesn't expect her best friend to show up at the company anyways. There are things called security checks and appointments after all, and Matsumoto's charm won't work on tight-lipped female secretaries. Only guys are susceptible to the blonde's ensnaring charm.

Briefly, Hitsugaya's face flits across her mind's eye and she shakes her head in stubborn denial. No, she tells herself firmly. No way, no how. No guy in his right mind would ever want an invalid for a girlfriend. And she wouldn't want an arrogant, condescending, witty, intelligent…the thought stops there. No, she says again, just no. She sighs, long and lengthy, and quickens her pace as the familiar apartment appears. Five minutes of walking, maybe ten. Her right leg twinges in protest and she tells it to shut up and stop whining. It's all imagined anyways. Her right leg can't possibly hurt—not after two years. It's all in her head.

She wonders if it's the pain that won't let her go or…

Maybe if she's the one who can't let go of the pain.

* * *

"We got a fucking invitation! An offer! C'mon man!"

Renji's voice is still loud and harsh even at seven in the morning, much to the displeasure of the snowy-haired bassist. The guitarist is practically rabid with energy, one second shaking Ichigo up and down by the collar of his shirt, and the next second waving his hands frantically in front of Hisagi's face. "I can't believe it! And MG Studios, too!"

"If I'd known you'd be this excited, I would never have told you." Hisagi says quietly, one hand running through his hair in an agitated habit. "Rukia's not here yet. Maybe she forgot?" But the instant he says those words, he knows he's wrong. The short singer could be loud and rude sometimes, but she was serious about music. When she'd said she wouldn't miss it for the world, he'd believed her—though he still wonders why she'd sounded so sad.

"She's here." Hitsugaya mumbles, his first real words of the morning aside from 'shut up' and 'go die.' He shifts from his position by the window and goes to the door, unlatching it so she won't have to knock. It's a considerate gesture from him and the other three other band members quiet down when they see it. He pretends that he doesn't see Hisagi's eyes soften in brotherly approval or Ichigo and Renji's identical expressions of discomfort. He knows that they have been drawn in to Rukia's presence, attracted to her for the same reasons as him. But he doesn't care because the decision is hers in the end, and he's not interested either way. Self-denial is a habit he likes to practice often, after all.

"Wait, so do you actually like her?" Ichigo speaks up first, one hand shoved awkwardly into the back pocket of his jeans. "I mean, I won't steal from a brother…but it's just that…" He trails off, strangely unsettled for once in his life, as the bassist doesn't even bother to turn around. "Hey, are you even listening to me?"

Hitsugaya turns passive teal eyes on both the drummer and the second electric guitarist. His words are carefully chosen and neutral as he responds, the apathy so thick around him that it's almost suffocating. "I'm listening and I think that this is a waste of a discussion. What happens will happen and I'm not one to worry over matters of the heart. Do what you want and don't worry about stealing. You can't steal something that no one has. You can only take it and hope that it doesn't escape from your hold." He ends his sentence just in time for the door to open, the chilly morning air rushing around him and a small figure pushing past him to get inside.

"I'm here. Sorry for the wait." She doesn't elaborate on the reason why and the guys know enough about her to leave their questions unasked. "Let's go." Everyone notices the way the hood seems to hide her face and her defensive posture. She seems far away today, as if her mind is somewhere else. Her movements are slow and sluggish, the limp more pronounced than ever. It bothers all of them, even Hitsugaya with the expressionless façade. "Well?" She snaps suddenly, piercing violet eyes flashing with anger and frustration.

"Oh, yeah. Don't worry about it. We weren't in much of a hurry anyways. I was afraid you didn't get my message about today. You didn't pick up the phone when I called you yesterday." Hisagi says, his tone completely business-like. Her issues are her own and he trusts Matsumoto enough to tell him if there's something serious going on with their singer. He'll learn soon enough that no one can ever be trusted. But that's later.

"I got the message. Thanks for telling me that the Studio was actually a six-hour drive from here. Otherwise I would've definitely been late." She smiles a bit and the tension dissipates, with Ichigo and Renji joking with one another again. Hitsugaya is the only one left still regarding her with suspicion in his eyes. She deliberately avoids looking at him, focusing her gaze on a rapidly reddening Renji instead. The bassist snorts disdainfully and steps outside. She can't hide from him forever. She can't run away forever. And he'll be there when that happens.

Their footsteps echo loudly in the morning, lost in their own thoughts, no one notices when Rukia's mind drifts elsewhere—to a memory from the recesses of her mind. She's reliving her nightmares, she knows, but she can't help it. Can't help, can't stop, can't do anything against it. She's stuck watching the past before her eyes, butterflies slicing her stomach to pieces with deadly sharp wings as they flutter within her. She's not nervous, she realizes suddenly as the engine of the car starts up and Coldplay's _Cemeteries of London_ fills the silence. She's not nervous.

She's downright panicking.

_The sweat slides down the small of her back as she slams her hand on the ground, righting her vertical figure. The beats of the music prod her onwards and she slides effortlessly into the next choreographed position on the floor. Her back is arched, long locks of black hair falling past her face, her right arm supporting her figure as the left one reaches upward as if grasping for a dream. She breathes heavily for a moment and then two before pushing herself into a 'nike' position, her two legs forming a checkmark and her arms nearly trembling with effort. _

_The music keeps pounding, a feminine voice urging her onwards. Onwards. Go further. _

_She lowers herself into the jackhammer move and ends with a final twist of the body and a back flip. The spectators on the street whistle in admiration, throwing various odds and ends worth of money into her little pouch for donations. She smiles halfheartedly and takes a small bow before walking off of her makeshift stage. She's got enough to eat today, possibly enough for the rest of the week. She makes a move to enter the nearest ramen shop with a hidden knife strapped to the inside of her pant leg and the donations secured tightly to her arm, but a sudden jolt of pain stops her. _

_She looks down at the traitorous leg and curses softly. But she doesn't have enough money or time to go get it checked it out. The pain will fade, she thinks and continues on her way. _

_It's past midnight when she finally notices that the lower half of her leg is turning a sickly shade of pale blue. _

"Yo, you alright? You kind of just spaced out for a couple minutes here." Ichigo playfully whacks her on the head and she shoots him a glare, shifting further away from his touch. The last thing she needs is for him to accidentally brush against her right leg. Although it doesn't matter in the end, she concludes morosely. They'll find out once the physical examination is done today. And when they do, they'll hate her for it. But that's alright. She already hates, despises, and abhors herself.

"Snap out of it." Hitsugaya says, irritated by the lost expression in her eyes. He wants the cool and aloof female back, not this fatalist dreamer. "We'll be there in a matter of hours and I don't want them to think you're stoned. I don't know what is throwing you off, but stop it and get back on track." He waits for a response, a witty barb sent his way or a look of heated anger. But there's only a fathomless silence and he turns his head to look at her, worry gnawing away at his mind once again.

She's lost.

And he doesn't why.

* * *

"Utopia, right?" The female secretary doesn't even look up to acknowledge them, pushing up her glasses instead and ringing the bell by her side. Hisagi opens his mouth to correct her pronunciation (because dammit, it's you-toe-pea-ya and not you-top-e-ay) but they're already being ushered away by two company lackeys. He snaps his mouth shut with an audible click and locks exasperating gazes with Ichigo, who looks just about as miffed as him. Only Rukia and Hitsugaya appear to be detached, taking in the surroundings blankly.

"Alright, I've got the guys. My name's Nick." A sandy-haired guy says, eyes critiquing the overall look of the group. He thinks they've got a pretty good chance. At least to the eye, they look like a completely perfect ad for…well anything, really. The orange-haired guy has an intimidating scowl on his face and a decently tall height. Two things that will send the fangirls running towards him. The red-haired one has the appeal of being casually cool. The white-haired one towards the end is a little short, but the eyes and that face make it a moot point. And the group leader, Hisagi? Hishi? Shuu something or other. The tattoos and the scars, while normally unattractive, just plain _work_. He can already picture a green light turning on for them. There's absolutely nothing to complain about. "My colleague will be taking care of the examination for…" he breaks off, glancing at the clipboard before nodding sagely. "Kuchiki Rukia."

The mentioned girl steps forward carefully, pale hands lifting the hood of her sweater off. "Let's get this done and over with." She murmurs softly and turns to follow the female worker.

Nick watches them go with an apprehensive light to his eyes. She's tough, he can tell and her eyes are simply magnificent. But as she walks away, he catches the faintest hint of a limp. He turns to look at her fellow bandmates and winces as he sees their equally concerned expressions. He has a bad feeling about that Kuchiki Rukia—an incredibly bad feeling. "We'll be heading to the left." He says, smiling artificially to cover up his momentary lapse. They stare at him with identically reluctant looks and his smile wilts underneath the combined forces of their gazes.

"Don't worry about her. She'll be fine."

"Unlike you," Hitsugaya mutters from underneath his breath and Renji hides his laughter behind a poorly conceived cough.

But the anxiety hangs around them, waiting and waiting for the perfect opportunity.

* * *

_She quits the dancing crew the day she falls only to find herself unable to get back up again. They disband the next day and she's left staring at the pathetic and disease-infested leg. It's mottled now, some parts completely blue and others still tinged with a healthy light bronze. Her entire leg is numb except for times when it seems as if someone's stabbing her leg to pieces. She's given up. Let it go, a part of her seems to say. Let it go, it isn't as if you've ever had anything to begin with. Give up. Back down._

_She never leaves her apartment, watching with morbid fascination as her leg begins to literally rot from the inside out. There's nowhere for her to go and no one willing to help a beggar from the streets. Talent? Ha! What a joke, she thinks cynically as she falls to sleep every night. Talent doesn't matter. It's never mattered at all._

_One night, she goes to sleep, gritting her teeth and willing the tears of pain to go away._

_She doesn't wake up again—at least not as the person she was before._

"Kuchiki Rukia, right?" The female aide asks lightly, manicured nails flipping through pages of personal information with the air of a trained professional. She gives the impression that she doesn't really give a damn, but she pretends to just for the sake of a paycheck. They're in a confined room, the door closing behind them with an air of quiet finality. The windows are shuttered and all of a sudden, Rukia truly feels as though she's locked herself in and thrown away the key. Maybe she's never had the key to begin with.

"You'll need to take off the sweatshirt. I'm assuming you wore something at least partially skin-tight? I need to see if your shape is alright." Again, that cool and professional tone of voice. Something about it both irks and soothes Rukia, like maybe this woman won't give a shit if there's something screwed up about her leg. But that's a lie and she knows it. The professional part tells her that. She doesn't respond to the question, shrugging off her black hoodie to reveal a purple tank top. She doesn't understand the need for this. It isn't important or even significant. She's not trying to be a model here, just a singer. It shouldn't matter what she looks like, whether her legs are too short, or if her chest is too small. She hates this. She feels like a cow being sent to the slaughterhouse and her eyes narrow at the thought. Because she's just that stupid to allow herself to be dragged into this, offering herself up like some pretty little sacrifice. She's just that stupid, just that blind.

"You work out. Your arms show some muscle on them, but I don't think it will pose a problem. Obviously, we're going to try and market you as a type of rebel girl who doesn't listen to society's rules. Your chest is a little on the small side, but extra padding should solve that problem. Don't worry, we can make it look natural." The words come out like bleak sentences typed out on a computer. It's like an automatic recording. Oh yes, you're imperfect, but don't worry. We'll hide that and make you _look_ perfect so millions of girls can idolize you and then eventually spiral into anorexia. And everyone will be happy in the end. She snarls inwardly at the woman's words and her eyes glimmer with resentment. The MG Studios worker doesn't seem to notice though, lifting a slim hand to turn her head left and then right. "Lovely face. You have beautiful eyes and wonderful pale skin. Your hair will need to change, it covers that beauty."

She manages to choke out her next words—barely, through the anger coursing through her veins. "Do you need to change all of this?"

The woman looks back up, steel-like eyes flashing behind glasses. "But of course. You do want to be successful, don't you? Of course you do, dear. Now let me have a look at your legs. Would you mind if I asked you to change into a pair of our company shorts? I need to examine their shape." She poses the question like a demand, as if she isn't expecting any defiance upon Rukia's part. It's almost like she expects the violet-eyed female to be awed by having come this far.

But Rukia's next words interrupt the process, effectively cutting short everything. "I refuse."

"Excuse me?" The woman asks, an eyebrow arching gracefully into a look of surprise. "You _refuse_? You _do_ realize that I won't be able to give you the green light if I can't finish my examination, right?"

Rukia nods, eyes practically flaring with sparks of heat and anger. "I understand perfectly and I still refuse." Her stance is defensive, arms crossed across her chest, head lifted high. She locks gazes with the examiner and cocks her head in a mocking challenge. Come, her stance seems to beckon cunningly. Come, and I'll show you what it means to be a real person and not some plastic surgery Barbie doll.

"Refusal denied, girl. You will put on those shorts." The worker snaps back, impatience and irritation fraying the edges of her previously calm and collected person.

"No." Rukia states simply, one hand reaching down to the bottom of her right leg, fingers curling around the edge of the fabric. "And do you want to know why? Because this too-small-chest, pretty little face, violet-eyed, leanly muscled dancer isn't fucking perfect." She hisses, her hand clenching violently around the pant leg and exhales a breath. She can't hide it within her like this. Better to go out with defiance panted in red paint across her face than to be forced and abused into it. Her heart pounds within the confines of her chest, almost screaming with the need to be released. She closes her eyes and jerks the pant leg up.

Her eyes open after a moment of still and deadly silence, a bitter smile curving her red lips. Her next words are soft and sweet, made from the pain of bearing a burden by herself, made from having a part of her torn away.

"Get it now? I'm worse than imperfect. I'm damaged."

"My God…" The worker whispers horrifically.

"My God."

* * *

_She wakes up two weeks later in a hospital bed, with two nurses peering at her anxiously. They flitter and flutter about, adjusting her pillow and smoothing back her oily hair from her forehead. She's completely bewildered by the scene, wondering if maybe this is an extraordinarily vivid hallucination. But it's real as she flinches sharply from a shooting pain originating at her right leg. The shorter nurse notices and looks at her with an expression of great pity. It makes her skin crawl. "The morphine wore off, yeah?" It's a rhetorical question and the nurse opens a shelf by her side to withdraw a pack filled with clear liquid. She hooks it up to the IV and smiles reassuringly. "It'll take effect in about twenty minutes. Would you like me to call in your brother? He's been waiting all week for you to wake up."_

_What? She wants to scream? What in the world? She doesn't have a brother! She's never had anyone even remotely related to her, unless the memory of a sister placing her down on the street even counts. But a brother? Impossible. Preposterous. She thinks the nurse has been around too much medication. "I…what?" She croaks out, wincing as her rusty voice chords twinge with pain from irritation. Her leg gives another sharp flare and she jerks a bit to the side._

_"I'll go get him." The nurse replies firmly, the pitying look back in her eyes again. The door shuts behind her and she's left staring at the white wall, confusion running amuck in her mind. Go get who? She mouths silently to the quiet as the other nurse exits as well. And more importantly, she wonders to herself with trepidation. Why? She grows irritated with the consistent nagging pain from her right leg and she pulls off the green covers brutally. Her scream is sharp and piercing, the blood rushing from her face. The sound dies away eventually, receding into a gurgle and then a choke. She looks frantically around for a knife, a blade, even a scalpel. Anything, anything to get her out of this hellish nightmare._

_It doesn't take long for a patter of frantic footsteps to sound outside her room. The door bursts open, revealing a somber-faced doctor and a much younger man dressed in a business suit. "She knows." The doctor states calmly and her hysteria drives her into wild peals of laughter._

_She knows? She **knows**? Of course she knows now! It's difficult to not notice when you're missing a leg! She shakes violently with laughter, tears running down her face as she gasps and gasps for a breath that never seems to come. "You took my leg! You fucking cut off my leg!" She shrieks, her hands tearing into her hair. Her eyes keep wildly rolling to the stump of flesh that extends barely half a foot from her waist. She doesn't even have a knee left! Nothing! Absolutely nothing!_

_"Sedate her!" The doctor commands and the nurses come running back in, the same pitying looks in their eyes, as they jam a needle into her skin._

_Before she fades into the darkness, she locks gazes with the silent, gray-eyed man and lets all the hurt and the anger bleed through her slowly shutting eyes. His stoic expression changes for a brief moment in time, an expression of heart wrenching pain twisting his clear-cut features._

_She doesn't hear him whisper that he's sorry._

* * *

"You can't fix this, can you? You can't cover this up." She says harshly, never letting the fabric fall back down. The metal gleams wickedly from underneath the artificial light and she laughs. Bitter, mocking, and every bit as twisted as her life. "I had an amputation, you know. It was a blood clot and it spread, cut off the circulation until my leg was practically rotting away. I would've died but I didn't." She doesn't say who saved her back then, gave her life in exchange for her leg. She doesn't say his name, doesn't feel as though she's worthy enough to even whisper it. "This is the best prosthetic leg that's on the market right now. Flexible and adjusted to, at the very least, minimize my limp. The metal frame gives it the shape of a human leg so my clothing won't sag visibly if I'm wearing loose pants. But I'm not deceiving you now."

The worker's mouth is still slightly open, horror and something resembling disgust haunting her eyes. "I'm sorry." She says, on default, and the words are so insincere. Because really, they don't even _know_ one another. How can she possibly be sorry? "I think you know what this means," she says, glancing back down at her clipboard and marking a red slash on the examination sheet.

"Yeah, I know. I'd much rather have your rejection than your pity." Rukia replies, picking up her discarded sweater and slipping it back on. The pant leg falls back down, concealing the ugly fusion between metal and flesh—the fusion between nature and mechanical technology. Synthesized. Before the unnamed employee can even open her mouth, she's gone—the door clicking softly shut behind her.

"_I was your sister's husband years ago." He says softly, as if afraid she'll lose her head and start screaming again. But she's made of sterner stuff than that and she's past hysteria and anger. She doesn't realize she's fallen straight into depression yet. But that's alright for now. "You used to perform at night for the crowds on the street directly in front of my office. My wife told me to adopt you and atone for her sins. She abandoned you when you were just a child." His expression wavers like a flickering flame for just a second, a display of regret and guilty creeping into his slate-gray eyes. She pretends not to notice, staring down at her ugly limb and replying bitterly. _

"_I should've died back there, wherever she'd left me. That was a much more merciful act than you give her credit for." She runs a hand down the cold metal, flinching as the temperature chills her skin and flinches as he lays a warm hand on her shoulder. _

"_Hisana wasted away of illness two years ago, I've been trying to find you ever since." _

_She looks back at him, moving the covers so that they can cover her disfigurement. "Disappointed, aren't you? I haven't even been officially adopted and you're already paying thousands of dollars for me. It's not too late to take it back, you know. I'm good at pretending things don't exist." _

_He doesn't say anything, but she knows he's the type to go through with actions—no matter the price or the damnation that will inevitably follow. She shuts her eyes and he leaves silently, the warmth of his hand lingering on her shoulder and making her feel the cold of her prosthetic leg all the more vividly. She curses him that night. For giving her another chance at life, for saving her. She curses him…_

_But she curses at herself even more._

* * *

"You won't make it," Nick says decisively. He snaps his phone shut and looks back up at the four faces with a mixture of defensiveness, worry, but most of all, regret. They would've made an amazing band, he thinks. But even the company can't take a one-legged female singer. It would cause a huge controversy. It just wasn't worth it. "Kuchiki Rukia failed her physical exam."

He expects the bandleader to step forward, fists ready to go. But the white-haired bassist is the first to speak, shifting hands out of his pockets with a deadly quiet voice. "Because she wasn't a plastic surgery piece of shit? Because she was more real than either you or your coworker could ever be? Because you just _fucking decided to_?" His hands are white, clenched so tightly that crescent marks imprint themselves on callused palms. "Fine, we'll find another company."

"Shut up and listen, Toshiro Hitsugaya." Hisagi murmurs, observant eyes already understanding that the issue goes far beyond a plain face or an undesirable body shape. "You know Rukia's good enough to pass. There's got to be a better explanation." He scuffs his shoes on the laminated floor and fixes an almost-bored expression on Nick.

"And if there isn't, well, we won't have a problem kicking your sorry little ass." Renji snaps out, cracking knuckles.

"She doesn't have a right leg." Nick shoots out, if only momentarily satisfied by their thunderstruck expressions. "An amputation took all of it. Your pretty little singer—"

"Is right here." Rukia announces firmly, walking in with confidence radiating from her every move. It masks her discomfort from having so many people and even though she holds her head high enough, her limp is more pronounced than ever. It's as if her right leg is falling to pieces all over again. "I failed. Great, now you can go celebrate on the streets. You bastard." She spits and turns her eyes back on her fellow bandmates. She isn't afraid of Nick—he's only a lackey without power or control. But she fears Shuuhei, Renji, Ichigo, and most of all…Hitsugaya. She's let them down knowingly and she knows they won't (and she won't) ever forget.

There's a deafening silence that seems to be louder than all the screams in the world. It digs into her skull, worming its way into her infested heart and then down to that _goddamn_ leg. She forgets how to breathe.

"Why didn't you tell us?" Ichigo finally demands, eyes flashing amber even as Hitsugaya refuses to meet her eyes. "We had a right to know! But we don't even find out from you, we find out from some MG Studios lackey! I thought we were worth more than that, Rukia. I really did."

She bites her lips and looks away from him, her eyes going to her splayed out hands and then to the cursed leg. "I'm sorry. I really am. But I…"

"You don't need to tell us." Hitsugaya says calmly, waking up to her and gently laying a hand on her shoulder. She flinches from surprise and guilt and he quickly removes his hold on her. "We're all angry and hurt by what you did, but that doesn't mean you should spill everything out to us. Wait until you're ready. I don't want to take advantage of your confusion."

She watches as he walks out the door and wonders what more she has to lose.

Her confidence falls on itself like a house crumbling bit by bit and she bites her lip, one hand fisting the fabric of her sweatshirt. She feels the tears threatening to pour forth but she stubbornly holds them back, shaking with the effort. Her eyes are trained on the floor, unable to hold even a fleeting gaze with either of the men left. She can't bear the weight of their disappointment and accusations. She fights the tears off. She's stronger than this, better than this. She won't cry, can't cry. Because that would mean admitting she's finally lost something of value, something cherished and loved from the depths of her heart.

And she won't admit that she may have just snapped the last ties of friendship she's ever had.

Because then…

Then…

There really would be nothing left worth living for.

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**Author's Note: **Wow. It's been half a year! Sorry guys, but I've been busy. So now you know what Rukia's issue is as well as most of her past. But don't worry, this story's not over yet. So keep hanging on. I'm really touched to have had so many loyal readers and let's work hard to reach 100 reviews, neh? I've never achieved that many reviews before and I'm really working hard on Tension and the Spark. Please continue to support me with your thoughtful comments and words of encouragement.

**Question: **Was Rukia too whiny in this chapter? This chapter is probably going to be the most depressing out of the entire story, so I focused all that boiling and simmering pain and hurt in here. I'm not sure if I overdid it or not, but if I didn't have a leg, I'd be pretty damn depressed.

**Sneak Preview and Summary of Chapter Five  
**

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Summary: Left in disarray from Rukia's confession, the band struggles to piece itself back together again. But between Rukia's self-loathing and guilt and Hitsugaya's sudden frosty demeanor…No one's quite sure of the future anymore. That is, until help comes from a most unlikely source.

Hitsugaya understands Adam and Eve now, how their thirst for the forbidden finally gave them the most damning knowledge of all. He wanted to know Rukia, wanted to know the real her behind the witty insults and passionate singing. He wanted to know everything about her. But now that he knows, he has no idea what to do. His head jerks up at the sound of her light footsteps entering the room and he murmurs a halfway greeting.

"You don't need to pity me." She bites out suddenly, choking out the words. "I hate pity."

He raises his eyes slowly to meet her suspiciously bright violet gaze before lowering again. "It isn't pity," he says heavily, sighing. "I don't do pity."


End file.
